Fumbledom Donkeystrate's Adventures in Disaster

Now weepest I at my table of mourning,
        my scepter of grief at my hand,
And I scrawl all my tears on my plain-white companion
        to archive the fears I withstand.

For living is risky when nothing is risked,
        since this life, at its shell, is a game,
And to play is the same as to win on most days,
        but to fold is profoundly profane.

Yet for most of the game I thought I was the clever one–
        calmly amused by the folly of life.
Consuming the Koolaid, I retire at the sidelines
        to mock all the plays and their players alike.

“Pish, posh!” I contend as I witness a friend
        who is shooting the dice of romance,
And I scoff all the more as he walks through the door
        with his ring and his smile and his wife
                (and his chance at a meaningful life).

And I’ve little to lose, though there’s much to be gained
        by attempting to roll my own dice,
But Alaska is plain and Miami insane in my mind
        ‘cause my heart’s made of ice.

Now, no man’s an island without the consent
        of himself and his family and friends.
Yet, if one is an isthmus then doubtless he’ll miss this,
        and think he’s an island instead.

And I was that quitter, alive but alone,
        and awash with more water than friends,
I was sleeping alone in an ocean of moans,
        but now I am rolling the dice,
                might be nice to melt the ice.